


You Can Get Anything You Want At Alice's Restaurant

by vilelithe (BroPorrim)



Series: gay holidays [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bad Dads, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Humor, M/M, Mentions of Pregnancy, Military Family fun, Thanksgiving Dinner, everyone is an ass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-03-28 17:55:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3864229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BroPorrim/pseuds/vilelithe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alone on Thanksgiving?  Mad at your Dad?  I am a twenty-eight year old felon with no job and a dirty old van one year younger than me painted like Eddie Van Halen’s guitar.  I can play anywhere between the ages of twenty and twenty-nine depending on if I shave.  If you’d like to have me as your strictly platonic date for Thanksgiving, but have me pretend to be in a very long and/or serious relationship with you, to torment your family, I’m game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off of a tumblr post based off of a Craigslist post
> 
> I've been picking away at this to balance out writing the heavier parts of FTitK, so this will but updated far more sporadically. It's also way shorter, and should only clock in at a handful of chapters. So have some comically moody Thorin and Thanksgiving. You know. In May.

_Alone on Thanksgiving? Mad at your Dad?_

_I am a twenty-eight year old felon with no job and a dirty old van one year younger than me painted like Eddie Van Halen’s guitar. I can play anywhere between the ages of twenty and twenty-nine depending on if I shave. If you’d like to have me as your strictly platonic date for Thanksgiving, but have me pretend to be in a very long and/or serious relationship with you, to torment your family, I’m game._

_I can do these things, at your request:_

_-Openly hit on female guests while you pretend not to notice._

_-Start instigative discussions about religion and/or politics._

_-Pretend to be very drunk as the evening goes on. (Sorry, I don’t drink, but I used to. A lot. Too much, in fact. I know the drill.)_

_-Start an actual, physical fight with a family member, either inside or on the front lawn for all the neighbors to see._

_I require no pay but the free meal I will receive as a guest!_

_ do NOT contact me with unsolicited service or offers _

Thorin didn’t make a habit of trawling through Craigslist, but there were times where there was nothing else to provide him with entertainment. If one was truly persistent, they could find gems. He was hesitant to call them diamonds in the rough, but if he was generous he might just call them quartz. Cubic zirconium at the very least.

This one took the cake. It made him laugh. Not any sort of out loud laughter, but the ad made his shoulders quake with silent laughter, which was more than most could say. He leaned back in his computer chair, holding onto the edge of the desk lest the damned thing tip back again and spill him onto the floor, and called out, “Dís! C’mere, I have something to show you.”

“Give me a second!” she yelled back, somewhere down the hall. Moments later, she appeared in the doorway, six months pregnant and looking miserable for it. Thorin wheeled back a bit, rolling away from the screen so that she could see it.

“Read this,” he said, the last remnants of his amusement still plain in his voice. “It’s priceless.”

She bent over slightly, leaning in to squint at the screen, scrutinizing it. Then she broke out laughing, the most open of the two, and he fell into fresh laughter with her. “Oh my _God_ ,” she wheezed. “Thorin. _Thorin._ E-mail this guy.”

“What?”

“E-mail him. Snatch him up right away. You’ve been-” she glanced at the door, ensuring that no prying ears were listening. “You’ve been looking for a good way to get Dad's goat, haven’t you? He needs to get knocked down a peg and you know it, and Frerin could use some humbling. Fuck, I just want Thanksgiving to be _exciting_ for once. Please? E-mail him, it can’t hurt!”

“I’m not e-mailing him. He’ll probably just mug me, or steal shit when he comes over,” said Thorin, crossing his arms.

“So?”

Damnit. “Good point. I’ll think about it.”

She pursed her lips in thought for a moment, then nodded. “Fine, but don’t take too long. Someone else might swoop in and steal our knight in shining armor.” And then she bustled away, down the hall to do god knows what. Pregnant woman things.

Thorin thought about it for all of thirty seconds before realizing that she was right. What was the worst that could happen?

_**Subject:** thanksgiving_

_hey, so i saw your ad on craigslist. im 22 and mad at my dad, so what do i really have to lose? something, probably, but whatever. im not really into the idea of letting a self-professed felon into my house without meeting him first, though. if someone hasnt already requested your service (?) then maybe we can get coffee or something? my treat, i guess, since you dont have a job. –thorin_

“Tactful,” Dís would say later, reading over the e-mail hours after he sent it. “So what’d he say?”

“Just read it,” Thorin said, scrolling down to the man’s response.

_**Subject:** Re: thanksgiving_

_Thorin,_

_A pleasure to meet you, though not formally. Yet. I still have no engagements for Thanksgiving. My services are apparently not in high demand here. Too many functional families, I suppose. I’d be pleased to meet you at your earliest convenience, and though I’ll insist that you pick the time and place (I don’t live in the area, you see, just passing through,) I’ll insist just as heavily that you deign to allow us to split the bill. I’m homeless and jobless, as you so tactfully pointed out, but am still able to pay for a coffee. I’m regarded as a quite respectable man, I’ll have you know._

_-Bilbo Baggins_

Dís frowned contemplatively at the e-mail, then straightened up and laughed. “Good god, Thorin, you _have_ to meet this guy. Take him to that internet café, the one with the weird art and bad music and shit,” she suggested, her hand resting idly on the great swell of her stomach. He considered his options, thinking of the more standard Starbucks in town, then sighed, resigned. The café Dís had in mind was certainly odd, which made it absolutely perfect for such a meeting. Its most recent collection of art (all made by local artists and for sale) heavily featured the more private wonders of the human body, and somehow the idea of spending however long their meeting would take surrounded by artistic renderings of genitalia was not Thorin’s idea of a good time.

It was, however, Dís’. Rather, she thought that the idea was entertaining. And if Thorin thought that she was a force to be reckoned with before becoming wildly pregnant, he wasn’t wrong, but he wasn’t prepared for how bad she would get while overrun with hormones.

“Go on, you know it’ll be worth it,” she told him, and damn if she wasn’t right.

_**Subject:** Re: thanksgiving_

_mirkwood cafe, 3 o clock tomorrow. still my treat—thorin_

_ps you type like an old man, no one uses two spaces after periods anymore._

There it was, nice and succinct. Direct, just the way Thorin liked to handle his business. “Boring,” Dís droned. When Thorin made a very rude gesture in her direction, she squawked and batted his hand away. “Rude, the baby might pick that up. Try it again and I’ll break your finger like I did to Frerin.”

“He deserved it,” Thorin muttered uncharitably. Their brother had been insufferable ever since he received his acceptance letter from West Point last week. If Thorin was subjected to another pointed haranguing about the family legacy and how _someone_ had to uphold it, he could not be held accountable for his actions.

“And you will too, if you try it again,” she warned, then laughed. “Well, I’ll leave you to get emotionally prepared for your date. Really, you’re doing us both a favor.” Then, with a mocking salute, she strode from the room, calling over her shoulder. “Duty, honor, country, Thorin!”

Her laughter trailed in her wake, and he couldn’t help but join in. Their brother was irritatingly pleased with himself, and while Thorin wouldn’t grudge him his good standing with their father publicly, he was still thinking it.

Twenty minutes later, Thorin received a reply.

_**Subject:** Re: thanksgiving_

_Thorin,_

_I’ll meet you there, though don’t expect me to give up so easily on this. Splitting the bill, I mean. We can work it out in person, though, can’t we?_

_-Bilbo_

_P.S. Once you get to my sort of position, no one can really argue with you. I don’t mind dating myself a bit with my typing style. I might point out what yours says about you, but I’ll charitably hold my tongue._

Thorin laughed. Rather, he puffed a breath of air out of his nose a bit harder than usual, but the intent was there. Amused, but a bit embarrassed for having been called out, he didn’t show this newest e-mail to Dís. Technically this was his Thanksgiving date and his risk, not hers.

* * *

Mirkwood Café was the haunt of hipsters and vegans alike. Thorin avoided going there if he could. When the only places to get coffee were the run-down diner, the overcrowded Starbucks, and this place, though, he took what he could get. It was all warm colors and earth tones, independent artists crooning breathily over the expensive sound system. Often, they featured the works of musically inclined students from the local high school trying to market their senior project albums. Thorin thought the songs were always clumsy and contrived, if not tired, and automatically hated them.

Luckily, the place had a few discreet corners. He wasn't sure if his already piss-poor reputation could handle the blow of being seen here, let alone with a date. Thorin also ensured that his seat would allow him a swift escape if things went south.

Three o’clock came and went, the minutes ticking along anxiously. Twice the waitress (whom he thought he went to high school with, but he wasn’t going to ask) tried to take his order and twice he sent her away, insisting he was meeting someone. It probably seemed like he was being stood up. Fine. Let her think.

He tapped his finger against the smooth, knotted wooden tabletop, resting his head on his palm while he stared blandly at anything but the lovingly painted penis looming over him. He considered scrawling abuses on the chalkboard wall behind him, there to foster creativity. Thorin thought it was bullshit, since he liked to think he was edgy.

At 3:12 PM the door opened and Thorin straightened expectantly, thinking and hoping that this would be Bilbo. He was sorely disappointed to find a bookish, mousy looking man in a mustard yellow cardigan strolling in with his bag tucked under his arm. Another one of the usuals, then.

The man caught his eyes from behind round tortoiseshell glasses and smiled, surprisingly bright and familiar. Not the kind of smile he’d expect from a complete stranger, much less one who Thorin would expect to lack in social skills. But this man seemed to be full of surprises, because next he marched right up to Thorin’s small, round table, cool as you please. “Thorin?” he asked.

Perhaps this was an acquaintance of his father's? One in a list that he always managed to overlook. “Uh. Yeah,” Thorin grunted, starting to feel a bit silly. He sat in a chair made for someone a good bit smaller than he, and his knees stuck out awkwardly. And all while this small, bold man beamed down on him. “You are…?”

“Bilbo Baggins,” said the man, grinning brilliantly. “Quite easy to pick out, you are,” he said conversationally, perching on the seat like it was made for him, “you look exactly as I expected you to. Well, close enough that I could pick you out. Pleasure to finally meet you.” Then he stuck his hand in the space between them. When Thorin shook it, it was difficult to not to notice how impossibly small the man's hand was, enveloped almost completely by Thorin's.

“Right back at you,” said Thorin, taken aback. If Bilbo’s guess at what Thorin might look like was spot on, Thorin missed by a mile. He had expected a homeless man off the streets, not the personification of Harvard Law.

And what he got was a small, soft looking man. He was clean-shaven with short, curly hair and a mild resting bitchface. He looked more put together than Thorin had ever expected him to. Then again, compared to Thorin, anyone would look put together. More importantly, though, he wasn’t expecting the man to be so damn attractive. 

The waitress, Thorin noted smugly, looked surprised when she came back around to take their orders. “Can I get you two anything?” she said, her cheerfulness just this side of artificial. She seemed taken aback.

(Thorin then remembered that he took Calculus with her his Junior year and dated her best friend. _That’s right, Thorin Durin still has it,_ he thought, _just like he did in high school. Just bats for the other team now._ He liked to think he had been notorious for leading good girls astray in his days, though he didn’t do a very good job of it.)

“Coffee,” he grunted, always preferring brevity when under such social pressure.

She nodded, scrawling on her notepad in what he saw was slanted, loopy handwriting. Definitely the girl from Calc. What was her name? “And you?” she asked, turning to his companion.

“A black tea for me, I think. I’m no heathen, so I’ll take sugar and cream with that,” Bilbo said with a detestably wry turn to his smile. Devastatingly handsome, but not in any classic way, Thorin thought he was the kind of art that needed a more discerning eye to appreciate. Pretentious prick.

He should have been more concerned about the fact that Baggins was judging him for his taste in coffee of all things. By the time Julia—that was her name!—strode away purposefully, though, Bilbo had moved on to other topics. “So, what’d your Dad do?”

“Excuse me?” Thorin sputtered, more incredulous than offended at the invasive question. Normally people handled such issues with a bit more care and tact, didn’t they?

“Oh, don’t act so surprised. You said it yourself, you’re mad at him. So, the question begs to be asked. Why?” Baggins insisted fearlessly. It was this blind courage that Thorin decided to reward with his explanation.

Even after deciding to share, though, he wasn’t sure how to. Nor was he keen on doing so in an establishment that was probably crowded full of his father’s fans and friends. Then Thorin realized there was no better place to slander his father than in front of his fans and friends. “I’m the family disappointment. I'm the firstborn.” Bilbo nodded understandingly with a little _ah_. “Went to college, nothing fancy, but still a good private school. Majored in engineering, graduated. Didn’t go to grad school, though. Working as a welder right now.”

“I hate to pry,” Bilbo lied. They both knew he had no qualms about it. “I don’t see how that makes you a disappointment. Sounds like you're doing ”

“I’m a gay liberal with long hair in a military legacy family,” Thorin said dryly.

“Ah,” said Bilbo. That clever smile returned. He really was handsome, wasn’t he? “Then I believe my services will be of good use. What about the rest of your family? I’d like to know what I’m dealing with, at least.”

Reticence gave way to petty revenge. “There’s my dad. Pretty big guy in the military. He thought his honorable discharge was the biggest dishonor, even though he got pretty fucked up. Bullet to the leg. Still in there.” Bilbo hissed sympathetically.

“Then there’s my sister, Dís. She’s twenty, unmarried, and pregnant. Also a professional disappointment. Equally mad at Dad. She’s the one that made me e-mail you,” he said fondly, despite the generally negative impression he was giving. “Only one in the family that sees any sense.”

If Bilbo had anything to say thus far, he was keeping it to himself. Thorin greatly disliked sharing such intimate details, none of it was Bilbo’s business, but the guy was going to see it all at Thanksgiving anyway. Thorin decided he’d make sure to pry as well. “Can’t say much about my granddad, he’s old and losing it. And I’ve got a little brother,” he said, nose wrinkling slightly in distaste. “Frerin’s eighteen and he’s a little shit. Just got into West Point and will literally not shut up about it. He buys into all my dad’s shit, really. He’s the good kid, upholding the family legacy, and he knows it.”

It was a bit (read: a whole lot) more bitter than he’d intended, but he wasn’t going to backtrack now. Instead he sat back, arms crossed, and watched Bilbo watch him studiously. “Okay,” he finally said.

Thorin didn’t understand. “Okay?”

Julia returned with their drinks, and Bilbo thanked her before continuing. “So long as you’ll still have me, I’ll do it. Thanksgiving, I mean.” Then he picked up his tea, saucer and all, and gave it an appraising eye before taking a sip. “Good stuff.”

Unsure of how to respond, Thorin grunted. Then Bilbo’s words caught up to him, and he realized the man had all but invited himself to Thorin’s Thanksgiving. “Nothing is decided yet,” he said gruffly, hiding his panic well. “I want to know about you. What’d you do to get arrested, why you’re doing shit like this.” _This_ , of course, meant bumming free meals off of people in exchange for causing a scene. It was a good plan, one that he might resort to someday.

“Oh, yes, it is all rather suspicious, isn’t it?” Bilbo said graciously. He took another sip of his tea, then set the cup and saucer down together on the wooden table. And then he explained, and as he spoke he traced the rings and lines of the wooden tabletop with his fingertip. Really, he looked right at home, while Thorin only grew increasingly uncomfortable as the stranger (though with every word they only grew more intimately, unsettlingly familiar) spoke.

“The whole felon thing isn’t so bad as it sounds, I was arrested for some disorderly conduct a few years back. Remember the Occupy protests? I was in New York. All _very_ interesting business, I was glad I could be a part of it. The police weren’t so glad, though,” he said with a wink. He left it there, and Thorin was too afraid to ask what _disorderly conduct_ got him arrested. He thought it best that he didn’t know.

“As for why I’m doing this? It’s not really a habit, and I don't plan to make it one. It’s a good way to get a home cooked meal and a night’s entertainment, mostly. I put the ad up every few towns I stop in, and sometimes I get invited along to family reunions, parties and gatherings and the like. Breaks up the monotony of traveling.

“I’m not exactly homeless, you see. Or jobless, really. I’m on leave. Extended vacation, if you will. My parents died just this spring, very suddenly. Left me quite alone.” This made Thorin feel like a bit of an ass. Here he was with a living family and complaining about it to someone with none. Then he remembered his living family was a bunch of assholes and he stopped feeling so bad. “I had to clean up their affairs, and got a good sum of inheritance and a nasty bout of depression for my troubles. Oh, I’m a psychologist, I probably should’ve mentioned that earlier. The field is very funny about how mental illness is approached, and doesn’t really take well to the sick treating the sick. Not that I was all that inclined to try and do so when I was struggling myself. So, vacation it is! I’ll be going back in a few months.

“Does that answer any questions well enough?” he finished, steepling his fingers in what Thorin thought was a gesture highly indicative of his profession.

“That was way more than I needed to know, probably,” he said, then realized how insensitive it sounded. “I mean, you didn’t have to tell me all of that.”

Bilbo smiled at that, and if it didn’t reach his eyes, well, Thorin wouldn’t hold it against him. “Well, the way I see it, I’m in a café I’ll never visit again with a man I’ll never see again after this Thursday, so why bother keeping secrets? After all, talking about things helps. Trade secret.”

“Fair enough,” Thorin said, now more confused than he had been when they started. But maybe, with all of his microexpressions and his neat knitted cardigan, Bilbo Baggins was supposed to be a mystery. Maybe there was a comfort to be found in living lives tangent to other people, meeting once before swerving away into their separate realities. Either way, Thorin decided then and there that he wouldn’t try and figure Bilbo out.

This he decided even as Bilbo, fingers still steepled with his index fingers tapping together as he thought, decided he would figure Thorin out. He was the picture of regal confidence, squared shoulders and open posture. By all rights, he looked like he shouldn’t care about what others thought about his long hair and short beard, but Bilbo suspected otherwise. He suspected that this was a man who had spent his life under harsh scrutiny, a feral thing tamed, only just learning to let himself be wild again.

Thorin was excessively attractive, brown skinned, dark haired, and well built. He wore his hair in a tight, orderly bun at the back of his head and he held himself with noble bearing. Bilbo wondered if, beneath the loose sleeves of his shirt, his skin was marked by white scars and black tattoos or if it was simply blank.

A lesser man might have withered under the inspection, but Thorin held fast, doing his best to look disinterested as he drank his coffee in pensive gulps. Eventually, Bilbo seemed to come to a conclusion and broke his almost eerie stillness, leaning forward to pick up his tea again. “So, are we on?”

Without a single moment’s hesitation, Thorin nodded. “Yeah, we’re on.”

“Excellent!” said Bilbo, once again replacing his tea with a clink of ceramic on ceramic so he could clap his hands together. “So what exactly is the plan?”

“If you try and fight my brother or hit on my sister, it’s on your head,” Thorin said. “You can try it, but you’re out of your weightclass with either. And hitting on my brother or fighting my sister will only end worse. But going for controversial discussions should be easy enough, my dad’ll rise to the bait pretty easily. Otherwise, just your presence alone should do the trick, you don’t have to go above and beyond or anything. Nothing too awful. Hell, go easy on them.”

For his part, Bilbo looked the devil incarnate, practically glowing with malicious glee. Gears were turning with the audible sound of machinery. Thorin realized that he’d found a monster and was about to release it on his unsuspecting family. “Oh, this will be fun. And what’s our story?”

“Our...?” Thorin sputtered, tripping over his thoughts more than his words.

“Where did we meet, how long have we been dating, the works? If you’d like, I can come up with it all, but you’ll have to play along,” Bilbo offered. Idly, Thorin wondered how many times Bilbo has done this. He seemed practiced.

“Uh, let’s go with that. I can play along.”

“Wonderful. I have faith in you,” said Bilbo. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to see if I can find the restroom.”

“By all means,” Thorin said offhandedly, already sitting back and reaching for his phone in anticipation of a few moment’s solitude. Bilbo stood and shuffled off to the bathroom, but Thorin paid him little mind. He had a few missed texts from his sister, and it wouldn’t do well to leave her waiting.

**So???**

**What’s he like? Is he as wild as the ad makes him seem?**

**Ugh are you still talking to him? You’ve had dates that take less time. Didn’t scare this guy off so fast this time, huh?**

Thorin rolled his eyes then replied, large fingers clumsy on the small touch screen of his phone.

**calm your tits Dís, youll go into premature labor if you keep it up**

****

****

He was working on his quick summary of the encounter thus far when she replied with some sass, but he just ignored it and typed on dutifully.

**whatever. hes weird, but more normal than i thought hed be. you could probably throw him i swear hes fucking two feet tall.**

Her reply came as Bilbo returned, Thorin’s phone buzzing violently in his hand to herald its arrival. Thorin tucked his phone away with the message unread while Bilbo babbled about the bathroom’s décor. “Really, though, the best part was the soap. Smells wonderful, I love lavender.”

“Never liked it myself,” Thorin said gruffly, secretly pleased that he had at least gotten one thing right. This place was right up Baggins’ alley.

“You also take your coffee black,” Bilbo pointed out, as if that meant something. “No taste. You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

Thorin's carefully constructed composure came crashing down. He almost choked on his coffee, but managed to clear his airway with a few violent coughs. He could feel heat tint his cheeks, thoroughly embarrassed and a trifle shocked. “Excuse me?”

“Did I overstep boundaries? My apologies,” Bilbo said, looking sincerely sorry and suitably sheepish. He offered no excuse, no explanation, and Thorin could find something admirable in that, so he waved a hand and all was forgiven. Forgiven, but not forgotten, as he would later ruminate on that particular part of the exchange and _wonder._

About ten minutes later, when their drinks were reduced to dregs at the bottom of their cups, Bilbo excused himself, claiming he had some business that he needed to attend to. Thorin wondered what sort of business a drifter like him could possibly have, but he wasn’t about to argue. Instead, he waved placidly.

“A pleasure to meet you, for real this time,” Bilbo said, shaking Thorin’s hand with a loose grip. “I’ll need your address, and what time should I show up?”

“Three,” said Thorin with a mocking salute. “I’ll e-mail you details. See you Thursday.”

Bilbo laughed and returned the gesture jauntily. “See you then.” And then he was gone, leaving Thorin a bit winded. Julia came around before he had recovered, quietly scooping up their cups.

“Can I get the check?” Thorin asked, perhaps a bit abruptly judging by the way she jumped.

“Your…” she struggled with the word for a moment, clearly deliberating on which to use while she balanced their mugs in either hand, “your friend already paid a while ago.”

Thorin’s look must have been thunderous. Bilbo must have paid when he went to the bathroom, the sly son of a bitch. 

Julia withered under his glare. A Durin’s scowl was not a rare sight and not one easily forgotten, so if she really was Julia from Calculus, she was probably already familiar with it. If not, he still didn’t mind. “That _fucker_ ,” he cursed, leaning forward to look out the picture windows along the front of the café. Sure enough, he saw an old van painted like Eddie Van Halen’s guitar lumbering out of the parking lot. Too late to stop him, no doubt, and Thorin wasn’t going to dart into traffic over a ten dollar bill just to save his pride.

With an explosive sigh, Thorin sat back in his seat. Julia gave him a lingering, befuddled look before shrugging and leaving him to his mood, dishes clattering as she walked. He counted to ten, stared pondering at the dangling, painted breasts for sale above a nearby bookshelf, then left the cafe with a bad taste in his mouth. He couldn’t be sure whether it was the overabundance of genitalia or if it was the fact that he’d been bested, but it could easily be both.

Two days until Thanksgiving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I plan on delivering on each and every bullet point. Buckle up, kids, it's time for shenanigans.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Promised Day, Thursday, arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want you all to know that I edited this chapter instead of watching Orange is the New Black. Which I'm promptly going to do right now right away with SO much immediacy.
> 
> Enjoy these shenanigans.
> 
> EDIT: someone pointed out where my editing got sloppy, I'll get to fixing mistakes ASAP

The drive home was short, about fifteen minutes if he went the speed limit. Instead it took ten, and when he arrived home, Frerin was throwing Frisbees for the dog. When the car stilled and the engine shut off, Thorin climbed out, only to be met with muddy paws on his more or less clean jeans. “Goddamnit, Roac, these were clean,” Thorin barked, even as he bent over to scratch the dog behind the ears. He was a black, rangy borzoi with the signature snout and long legs. The dog had been Dís’ idea and the name had be Frerin’s, but it had decided that Thorin, the least enthusiastic about the addition to the family, was most starved of affection and that _someone_ had to save him.

So the dog would glue itself to his side, underfoot and inconvenient as he went about his day. Grudgingly, Thorin would admit that he loved the dog, but only under pain of torture. As it was, he gently pried the dog away from his side by pointing out that Frerin still had a Frisbee, would you look at that? and the dog tore off to try and get the toy.

“I thought you had work. You’re back early,” said Frerin, watching Roac bolt across the lawn on long legs. Thorin shook his head, coming to stand beside his brother while the dog leaped up to catch the Frisbee.

“Got the week off, but they’re paying me overtime to come in tomorrow,” Thorin said. His job paid well and had good hours, and more to the point he enjoyed the work, so why not take an opportunity to go in? The Wednesday before Thanksgiving wasn’t going to be a busy day anyway, so he thought he would take the chance.

“Oh,” said Frerin. Then, quite obnoxiously, “where _were_ you, then?”

Thorin saw no reason to lie, and indeed savored the look of swift horror on his brother’s face when he said, “date. With my boyfriend.”

“You’ve got a _boyfriend?_ ” he cried, voice rising in disbelief. “No way. I thought you were joking about the whole, y’know. The gay thing.”

“Wasn’t joking,” Thorin grumbled, reaching over to scrub Frerin’s head a little rougher than necessary. It was like petting a cactus, though, and Thorin immediately regretted it and missed the days when his brother actually had hair. Made it easier to mess with him. “And keep it down, Dad doesn’t know yet.”

“You gonna tell him?” Frerin asked, most likely so he could know what part of the house to avoid when everything went to shit. Thorin wished he could do the same, and briefly considered letting Bilbo be a surprise. But no, Thráin would take the surprise worse than he’d take the forewarning. Thorin wouldn’t subject poor, unsuspecting Bilbo to a Durin’s full wrath like that.

Tempting though it may be to avoid the uncomfortable conversation altogether.

Like a loyal boomerang, the dog came rocketing back to their sides. Thorin wrestled the Frisbee from Roac’s grip and tossed it away again, then left Frerin on the lawn. “Gonna do it right now, I guess. Shitstorm incoming. Just wish I could warn Dís.”

“She’s out anyway. Picking up granddad,” Frerin called after him, removing one worry from his shoulder’s, at least. No need to involve the hormonal pregnant woman in what will no doubt be a bitter war of attrition.

The door shut him with a soft click and he toed off his boots. He could hear the TV in the kitchen, the clink of glass on granite. “Home,” he called into the vast emptiness of the house. It wasn’t often that Dís was out, and she had a tendency to fill spaces well. Now that she was doing everything for two, the house always seemed dismally empty without her.

“Thorin,” his father greeted with as much warmth as he ever did. “How was work?”

“Day off,” Thorin explained as he rummaged through the fridge. Then, because history loves to repeat itself and so does he, he said, “was on a date.”

From the corner of his eye he could see his father stiffen, then say, “were you?” It wasn’t a question, Thorin knew, because he knew his father well. That was the way it was between the two of them, the way it always had been. Their conversations were clipped and brief even at the best of times, because they agreed that words were precious and the things worth saying were worth saying with as much brevity as possible. It was all very economical between them.

“Yeah, with my boyfriend.”

“Didn’t know you had one of those,” said Thráin, voice just on the wavering side of even.

Thorin shrugged, finally picking an apple and finding himself a spot leaning against the kitchen island. The cold granite was hard against the small of his back, but it was a small discomfort compared to the oppressive tension hanging over them like an illness. “Yeah, we’re pretty serious,” he said casually, lying as smoothly as he was able. “Anyway, do we have room for one more for Thanksgiving?”

“One… you can’t mean to bring this boyfriend to Thanksgiving? Thorin, this is the first I’ve ever heard of him,” said Thráin, and Thorin knew that that was not the main problem here, though he knew better than to point it out.

Thorin shrugged. “No time like the present, then, right? Please?”

Thráin’s cheeks were tinting pink, no doubt soon to turn red with his anger, but he still nodded and huffed, “fine,” like the very word pained him.

“Thanks, Dad,” Thorin said, mustering as genuine a tone he could manage. Secretly, he was touched that his father would look past their differences to let someone who—as far as Thráin knew—was important to Thorin come to their Thanksgiving. Deciding not to press his luck, Thorin ascended the stairs to hide out until he could gossip with Dís.

* * *

Thanksgiving day, Thorin woke up early, his stomach a nest of nerves and his hair a disorderly mess. The latter was a fair bit easier to deal with, so he showered and took to coaxing the knots apart with undue patience and attention while Roac licked the water off of his calves, much to his disgust. “Damn dog,” he muttered affectionately, jerking his leg away to little avail. “Fuck it, we’ll go for a walk. Dís’ is probably already tearing the house apart.”

True to his word, once his hair was dry and he was dressed, he shrugged on a thick, wool jacket and hunted down the dog’s leash. “Taking the dog for a walk!” he yelled, hooking the clasp around the D-ring and pocketing his keys.

Then he was out the door, Roac taking a flying leap off of the front steps and onto the smooth gravel drive. Thorin let him run ahead until the lead ran out, watching the dog range over the wide sidewalk gamely. Despite the hour, Thorin still saw a few other people taking walks, either with families or dogs or, in the rare instance, alone. There was a slight chill, characteristic of late November, but it was still warm enough that he could have gotten by without his jacket. It had been dry the past few weeks, no rain or snow, so yellowed leaves skittered across the streets. Roac would chase them, every so often, and Thorin had to take care to keep the dog off of the road.

By the time he’d made a circuit of the neighborhood (and then some, since he was dreading returning home) the streets were empty and it was just after two o’clock. The gravel of the drive crunched beneath his feet, and Roac’s tongue lolled out in delight as Thorin wiped his boots off on the doormat. Across the street, their neighbor leered at him through the window. Thorin returned the look tenfold, as though he could set the man aflame through sheer willpower.

No spontaneous combustion occurred, so he let himself in, resigned to his fate.

The tantalizing scents hit him like a wall, rich, mouthwatering aromas of roasting turkey and baking pies. He let the dog off of its leash and followed the jingling of his collar as he ran into the house after the irresistible smells. “Smells good,” Thorin called as he pulled off his boots and hung up his coat. In the kitchen, Dís and Thrór puttered about, both still productive despite their conditions.

“Thanks,” Dís said distractedly, stirring something on the stove. “Doing the best we can without being able to bend over.” Frerin and his father sat at the island, watching the football game with devout attention while they peeled potatoes. The dog panted and wound its way around their legs, no doubt hoping for some morsel to be dropped.

“Let me do that,” Thorin said, gently hip checking his sister away from the stove. “Go sit. And keep the damn dog out of trouble.” She rolled her eyes but relented, handing over the wooden spoon and giving him dominion over the stove. He peered into the pot and hummed appreciatively. Gravy. He used the spoon to fish out a small piece of meat, holding it down just below eyelevel and whistling for Roac. The dog’s ears perked, and he scooted out from beneath the stools around the island, nails clicking on the tile as he came to lick the proffered meat off of Thorin’s hand.

Frerin clicked his tongue sharply, calling the dog over to his side. “Keep him out of trouble, you say, then feed him. Don’t come crying when he starts begging.”

“I think I’ll live,” Thorin muttered, stirring a bit more aggressively than was needed. He could take his frustration out on the gravy, and later he’d do so when carving the turkey. Food was a bit more forgiving, and he was getting a bit too old to wrestle with his brother when tensions ran high, which was more often than not lately.

It was hard to keep from blaming Frerin for their father’s spiraling opinion of Thorin. What started when Thorin decided not to pursue a career in the military only got worse when he came out, and since then, Thorin’s relationship with his brother had never been what it used to be. Suddenly, much of their father’s hopes were pinned on Frerin, who rose to the occasion, but not without sacrifices. If you asked Thorin, he’d say it was too many years of listening to Thráin’s bullshit and being too eager to please. Questioning authority would do Frerin well, but not so much in his chosen career. All in all, Thorin misses how things used to be.

Still, sometimes twats are twats.

“So when’s your boyfriend supposed to show?” Frerin asked, and Thorin couldn’t tell if it was supposed to be a taunt or an attempt at a connection. Either way, Thráin stiffened. Maybe he wasn’t as keen on the idea as he had seemed the day before, but he seemed to be trying.

“Yeah, Thorin, isn’t he a bit late?” said Thráin, spitting the word _he_ like it was poison.

“He’ll be here soon,” Thorin said as placidly as he could manage, though the wood spoon was in mortal danger. “Told him to show up a bit before three, and he’s never been here. Give him t-” Speak of the devil and he shall come, apparently, because the doorbell choses then to sound through the house. Thorin practically scrambled towards the door, seeing how Frerin shifted to try and get up. “I’ve got it. Watch the gravy.”

He breathed a sigh of relief when Frerin gave up on the door there. Admittedly, he was nervous, more nervous than he expected to be. Not nervous enough to call the whole thing off, but a night of purposefully pissing his dad off was enough to stir up a pit of nerves in his gut. He pushed past the nerves and the dog, holding onto Roac’s collar to keep him from bolting when the door was opened.

On the other side stood Bilbo, still with the curly hair and the glasses, but looking far less respectable. For one, his jeans were far tighter than would ever be appropriate for a twenty-eight year old psychologist. He wore Tevas instead of Sperrys and hideous purple drug rug instead of his snug little cardigan. Thorin wasn’t sure whether he wanted to laugh or be sick, and realized he was firmly in the middle. “Oh, good” Bilbo said, relieved. He leaned over to let Roac sniff his hand, then scratched the dog behind the ears. “Good boy,” he crooned, then to Thorin, “I love borzois. Strange, but endearing dogs. The captain of the Titanic had a borzoi, you know? The dog wasn’t on the ship when… you know. But he had one. Anyway, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to find this place, the houses are all so far from the street here.”

“Right, yeah,” Thorin said, still at odds with Bilbo’s appearance. He shuffled stiffly out of the way to let Bilbo in, firmly keeping his gaze above the hem of that godawful hoodie. Luckily, it hung well below Bilbo’s waist. Thorin had a sneaking suspicion that those jeans were designed with women in mind, but they fit just on his guest as well. “Shoes off or Dís’ll have your head, but come in.”

“One of those families? Should’ve guessed. What’s the dog’s name, by the way?” Bilbo said, reaching behind himself to slip his shoes off. He placed them in a neat line beside the rest of the family’s shoes, then frowned contemplatively before mussing them into a disorderly pile. Then he made a pleased sound in the back of his throat and straightened up. Thorin finally released his hold on Roac’s collar, watching as the dog sniffed at Bilbo’s knees before tearing back towards the kitchen.

“Roac,” Thorin said, stiffly, as Bilbo had reached out and threaded their fingers together. 

“Is this alright? I think it makes it all a bit more real,” Bilbo said. Thorin nodded. They were dating, weren’t they? And quite seriously at that. Or, long term? Either way, some measure of physical affection would be expected. Thorin could do that. How bad could it be? Holding hands, some casual contact, nothing too intense, right?

Wrong. The moment they stepped foot into the kitchen Bilbo dropped Thorin’s hand, turned, and took Thorin’s face in his hands, tugging him down to kiss him soundly. “Mmph!” was all Thorin could manage, and he was pretty sure he heard something break somewhere to his left, but he was reasonably concerned with the fact that he was being very thoroughly kissed.

The moment passed just over the threshold of impropriety, then Bilbo released him, grinning in a way that could be interpreted as apologetic if you were very bad at reading facial expressions. Thorin was positive that his cheeks were bright with color, but still he turned to face his family. Dís looked delighted while his father and brother looked thoroughly scandalized. His grandfather, thankfully, was focused more on setting the table and missed the show.

“So…” Thorin began uncomfortably, breaking the painful silence that had descended in the wake of their surprisingly wet kiss. He wiped his mouth off on the back of his hand as subtly as he could, but judging by the look of sheer revulsion on his father’s face, none of them missed it. “This is my boyfriend, Bilbo. Bilbo, this is my family.”

“Charmed. Has anyone ever told you you look like Monica Lewinsky?” Bilbo said by way of introduction, mostly to Dís, shaking her hand firmly. Thráin reddened almost immediately, and Thorin already began to fear that he had bitten off a bit more than he could chew.

For her part, Dís only snickered in her lovely way and shook back. “Dís,” she said, providing her name. “And they haven’t, but there’s a first time for everything. Glad to finally meet you, heard so much about you.” Bilbo winked, then muttered something about smuggling watermelons.

Next it was Frerin’s turn. Bilbo stuck his hand in the space between them, Frerin regarding the hand like it might bite him. Still, he took it, and Bilbo shook enthusiastically with both hands. Out of the corner of his eye, though, Thorin could see that Bilbo cringed slightly. Frerin must have been exerting his masculinity with no regard for how fragile Thorin’s guest was. “I’m Frerin,” he provided.

“So _you’re_ West Point,” Bilbo said. Thorin wracked his brain, trying to remember when he told him that. “Is it true that they have Ulysses S. Grant cryogenically frozen there? And that sometimes you harbor _aliens_ before sending them to Area 51?”

Dís looked like she was only a moment away from uncontrollable laughter, and even Thorin had to restrain himself, but Bilbo himself seemed deadly serious. Either he had a few more screws loose than he let on, or he was an exceptional actor. Though both was an option as well. It didn’t matter much, though, because it meant that Thorin got to watch Frerin struggle with an answer, all while Bilbo shook his hand with great enthusiasm. “I don’t- no we- what?”

“Ah, a tougher nut to crack. Oh well, I’m sure I can get some government secrets out of you yet,” Bilbo said. Then he pulled his hand away, surreptitiously massaging the joints after Frerin’s crushing grip. His grin was back in full-force as he finally turned to Thráin. “And you must be Thorin’s father,” he said, offering up his hand again.

Thráin took it hesitantly, staring at Bilbo’s outstretched hand for just a moment too long. “Don’t worry,” Bilbo said, leaping upon the opportunity, “The Gay isn’t contagious.” Thráin reddened and Frerin coughed uncomfortably, but finally Thráin took Bilbo’s hand. Thorin noted the subtle displays of dominance in the way Bilbo went about the handshakes.

“Right. Well. A pleasure to meet you, ah- Bilbo.”

“No, no, the pleasure is all mine! Trust me, I-” Dis, bless her heart, decided to noisily drop a baking sheet, catching Bilbo by surprise. “Need help?” he asked, expression betraying more of his intentions.

“I’m out of broth,” Dís said pointedly, staring Thorin down more than Bilbo. It was only years of practice that kept Thorin from breaking under the weight of her stare. “Should be in the pantry.” 

“We’ll get it,” Thorin volunteered, gripping Bilbo’s arm and all but tugging him towards the hall and the pantry. 

“Leave room for Jesus!” Dís called after them, her laughter carrying down the hall.

The moment they were out of sight and, hopefully, earshot, Thorin bent in to hiss, “the fuck was that?”

Bilbo’s shit eating grin died on his face as he searched Thorin’s face. “What was what? Was it the Monica Lewinsky comment, because Dís-”

“You _kissed_ me,” Thorin replied, whispering harshly.

“Oh, oh yes,” Bilbo said, bringing a hand up to pat Thorin’s bicep. He sounded very earnest. “I apologize, was that uncomfortable? I can keep public displays of affection to a minimum.”

Thorin gaped, shocked that Bilbo would apologize and even more so because he seemed _sincere_ about it.

Thorin released his grip on Bilbo’s arm. “Yeah, that’d be… do that. Keep it to a minimum, I mean. I don’t like…” he trailed off, then straightened up to look over the shelves. A moment later he spotted the carton and pulled it from the shelf, tossing it deftly at Bilbo, who only barely caught it. “Think fast.”

“Fast enough,” Bilbo muttered. He shrugged and then he turned on his heel and walked from the room. Thorin trailed just behind him at a safe and surly distance. They emerged into the kitchen just as Dis removed the lid from a pot, steam billowing into her face. Upon their arrival, she beckoned them over with a wave of her hand.

“Good, just put that on the counter,” she instructed, pointing at Bilbo and gesturing at the spot she wanted him to put it. “Thorin, the turkey’s done and I can’t bend over because I’m fucking pregnant, d’you want to do the honors?”

“Language, Dís,” Thrain chided, receiving a mechanical apology while she set about straining peas. Steam billowed into the air, fogging up Bilbo’s glasses, and Thorin snorted at the sight before turning around to open the stove. Clad in paisley oven mitts, he opened the oven door and cringed as the hinges groaned. He made a mental note to see if he could fix that later.

Heat rolled out in thick waves, carrying with it the heavenly smell of cooked turkey. “Jesus, Dís, this smells incredible,” he said, carefully gripping the pan and hefting the turkey out. It was heavier than it looked.

“Enjoying the view, Baggins?” Thorin heard Dís chide. Bilbo made a noise that didn’t sound quite natural, and was still very red by the time Thorin had set the turkey down. The condition only worsened when Thorin raised an inquisitive brow, his date’s cheeks flushing to an almost concerning shade of scarlet.

Whatever that was about.

“Well?” Bilbo asked, rocking on his heels, recovering smoothly with a bit of nervous laughter. “What are we waiting for? Grab the bird and the chainsaw and let’s do this shit!”

Thorin saw Frerin mouth “chainsaw?” at Dís and resisted the urge to laugh.

Six sets of hands made the rest of the preparation light work. Dis quickly banished their grandfather to the dining room to set the table, and he could be heard humming happily, accompanied by the ringing of silver on silver. Thorin and Bilbo were set to ferrying food into the dining room, and Thorin thought that that would mean Bilbo could do little damage. While he wasn’t wrong, he wasn’t exactly right, either.

Every time the dog came within five feet of Bilbo, he would whisper in this awed tone, “a _horse._ In the _house._ ” It was most often when Thrain or Frerin were nearby, but sometimes he did it for Dís or Thorin’s sake, pulling a laugh from either of them. Roac seemed to enjoy the attention and got generally underfoot, much to Bilbo’s apparent delight. “Good horse,” he would croon, scratching the dog behind the ear.

It was fucking hilarious.

All too soon the table was groaning beneath the weight of potatoes, carrots, peas, and one very large bird. The gravy was in the same dish it always was in, on top of the same table cloth with its matching napkin sets. It was oddly familiar, dipping into the uncanny valley of Thanksgiving meals with Bilbo’s presence. He settled right in between Thorin and Frerin, looking for all the world like he should not have been anywhere else, but he was the odd one out, the piece from some other puzzle.

The turkey was carved with all of the solemnity the situation necessitates, parceled out onto plates quickly, and then Thror was leading grace. Bilbo looked bewildered throughout, but kept respectfully quiet, much to Thorin’s shock. Conversation bubbled up, lauding praises on the meal. Dís accepted and deflected graciously. Things seemed to be going well, barring the underlying tension, a rubber band pulled taut. Ready to snap.

He should have known the peace would not last.

“So, Bilbo,” Thrain said conversationally. Thorin had to give him credit for trying. “What do you do?”

“Acid, mostly,” Bilbo said. “Like, just now. In your bathroom.” There was an incredulous pause, then Bilbo hissed. “Ohhh. You meant for, like, work. Yeah, I don’t. I go where the wind takes me, doin’ what I please and living off of the trust. It’s a real… zen experience, you know?”

“That’s… interesting,” Thrain grated. “So you do nothing.”

“Nope, just living off the system. It’s like… I don’t know, Communism.”

“That’s not even how—Communism doesn’t even work!” Thrain barked, clearly reaching the end of his thin patience.

“Oh,” Bilbo challenged, his hands on his hips. It didn’t really have the desired effect, as he was still sitting. “And capitalism does?”

“Better than your bullshit! But hell, you commie pinkos love any excuse to not pull your own weight! And I bet you-”

“You just don’t care about the poor!” Bilbo shouted over him, putting up quite a convincing act. He truly looked righteously angry, enough that Thorin was starting to second guess this. Again.

“The poor don’t fucking-” Thrain tried again, but he never really stood a chance.

Bilbo took up his knife like a flag, waving it with gusto as he cried, “the proletariat will rise again!”

“That’s not even-” Thrain began, and it truly was a valiant effort, but he could hardly be heard or noticed as Bilbo climbed onto his chair.

Thorin ducked his head, hiding in his shame, as his date waved his knife from atop his soap box. “And the bourgeoisie in their ivory towers will be cast down, and- holy shit!” The last part he cried as Thorin stood and lifted Bilbo bodily from atop the chair, slinging him over one shoulder like a particularly despondent sack of potatoes.

“Thorin!” he squawked, flailing as Thorin carried him from the room. “Thorin, put me down, I was winning!” He was largely ignored, and soon simmered down when Thorin patted his back.

“I’m sure you were,” he rumbled, “but my dad looked like he was moment away from putting a fork through you.”

“What part of me?” Bilbo asked, even as Thorin was unloading him onto the couch. It was like a switch had been flipped, like back in the pantry, and here was a confident, sane, respectable, almost _boring_ guy.

“Use your imagination,” said Thorin, shoving his hands in his pockets as he looked down at Bilbo.

“So how am I doing?” Bilbo asked. In the other room, Dís was laughing as Frerin shouted at something. Moments later, a guilty looking Roac appeared, laying his head on Bilbo’s lap. “Rate my performance thus far. I can handle the critique, I think.”

“Seven or eight,” Thorin said after a contemplative moment.

“Out of…?”

“You decide.”

“Well that’s no fun,” Bilbo said with a pout. And then he rocked forward, standing up off of the couch and herding Thorin back towards the dining room. “C’mon, I wanna see if your brother let the dog eat my food or not.”

“I wouldn’t place my bets on that one. You’re probably gonna have to pick more off.”

The meal continued on relatively peacefully, though more than once he caught Bilbo feeding the dog small pieces of turkey under the table. True to his word, Bilbo did not drink, though Thorin had no idea where the wine was going in the meantime, as Bilbo refilled his glass several times.

Somehow, Bilbo managed to attach a pair of googley eyes onto Roac’s rear, one on either side of his tail. No one else had noticed yet.

Soon the scrape and clatter of their great-grandmother’s good silver died down, their heaping servings reduced to stray peas and leftover gravy. Bilbo stretched, tipping so far back that his chair began to lean, then fall. At the last moment, just as Bilbo lost balance, Thorin reached out and caught the back of his chair, setting him upright again.

“Thanks,” said Bilbo as he stuttered a laugh.

“Don’t mention it,” said Thorin, his hand sliding to settle on Bilbo’s shoulder in a gesture that could be called affectionate, or even intimate. The moment stretched into impropriety before Thrain spoke up.

“Thorin, I’m going to see about dessert. Why don’t you and Frerin take care of the plates,” he said, and Thorin knew it wasn’t a question, so he stood and gathered up as many plates as he could, hoping to only have to make one trip. With his semi-precarious tower piled in his hands, he made his way into the kitchen, the dog following behind him enthusiastically, and Frerin coming last. Frerin made a choked sound of dismay, and had probably found the googly eyes. Good.

“Your turn to load the dishwasher,” Frerin declared quickly, carefully placing his load down before darting after Roac and away from his responsibilities.

So Thorin loaded the dishwasher and wondered how this is going so well. His family had never been particularly forgiving, nor open minded aside from Dis. He had expected them to kick Bilbo, and possibly Thorin, out far earlier.

There was still time.

When he finally returned to the living room, Frerin was still chasing after the dog (who seemed to think this is a wonderful game) while Bilbo regaled Dís and Thror with some story or another. Thrain and Frerin were just unfortunate bystanders.

“So there I am,” Bilbo continued in a skillful imitation of an incredibly inebriated person. He laughed at his own joke, snickering as he went. “There I am, with a bird in my hand and we’re both shitting like tomorrow ain’t a thing...”

Dís broke out laughing, clearly amused by the culmination of this punch line, and Thror chuckled heartily. Frerin only laughed uneasily, looking incredibly uncomfortable.

Revenge is always sweet.

“Dís,” Thorin said, leaning against the door frame. “You want to come help me pick out the wine for dessert?”

She sighed, feigning exasperation, and heaved herself from the table. Bilbo kept on talking, not wanting for lack of an audience. “Aye aye, captain, lead the way.” She forcefully linked their arms, practically skipping from the room. Once they were out of ear shot, Dís leaned in to whisper, “he’s an incredible actor.”

Thorin held the basement door open for her, descending behind her moments later. “That’s putting it lightly. I swear to god I thought Dad was gonna put that fork through his chest, though.”

“He’s getting better, though, you gotta admit. I’m still surprised Bilbo’s here at all. Nice guy,” she said. They came to the shelves of wine, bottles upon dusty bottles of a collection that started when Thror first built the house. “Grab that Port, I think. Not the nice one, I can’t drink it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” he grumbled, followed with a sharp, “ouch” when she elbowed him in the ribs.

“Don’t sass your sister!” she hissed, then laughed and patted his shoulder. “You think he’s cute, don’t you?” It sounded like an accusation, one that brought color to Thorin’s cheeks.

“I mean…” Thorin tried, but he couldn’t find the words to gracefully explain what he thought. Perhaps he didn’t even know.

“You could do worse, I think.”

“You hardly know the guy,” he pointed out. “He’s nothing like this when he’s not… whatever he’s doing. How can you know how good he is? Or isn’t.”

“I know things,” she said cryptically, tapping her nose. “Now go see what hell Bilbo’s wreaking on Frerin. Kid’s wearing a fucking target and I don’t feel bad for him,” she instructed, taking the bottle of wine from him. He still didn’t trust Bilbo on his own, so Thorin obliged, returning to the dining room to find that things were more or less peaceful.

Thrór chewed contemplatively while Bilbo shared some sort of story. Thrain was a safe distance away, but Frerin was not so fortunate. Thorin paled when he realized it was the story of their fictional first time together. “And I had his dick in my ass, and then he started crying. But that was mostly because I’d forgotten to turn off Marley and Me before we started the horizontal tango.” Bilbo shrugged.

Beside Thror, Frerin looked as though he was mere seconds from vomiting.

“Thorin,” he peeped, all six plus feet of him as sheepish as he was when he was six. “Thorin, he’s talking about…”

“Yes, yes, how he-”

“Oh! You knew him in the _Biblical_ sense!” Thror exclaimed, still immersed in his conversation with an eager looking Bilbo and speaking far too loud for Thorin’s comfort.

“Yes! There you are, knew you’d get it,” Bilbo said, a picture of beatific patience.

“Ah, yes. It was done in the military, you know. You know, Frerin, back in the day-” if Thror had more to say about that, neither Thorin nor Bilbo heard it, because Thorin hauled his date up and all but dragged him from the room.

The fact that Bilbo looked incredibly guilty was only a small comfort. A very, very small one. “My _grandfather?_ ” Thorin hissed.

“He’s a very nice man,” Bilbo said casually. “Really, understanding and fair and all. Says he’s pleased to have another grandson, which I feel a bit bad about. Lying, and all. Says I remind him of a buddy from the war. Seems to be enjoying himself, but I can leave him be if you’d like.”

Thorin sighed, defeated. “Do whatever. Frerin seemed to be getting the worst end of that deal, anyway.” Over Bilbo’s shoulder, Thorin could see that Thror was regaling Frerin with some story from the war. And judging from Frerin’s expression, he was elaborating on just what they “did” during the war.

“Well, duty calls,” said Bilbo as he offered Thorin a jaunty salute before returning to the table. As he shuffled past to get to the kitchen, he heard Thror continue his story about catching two of his gunnery sergeants going at it. Frerin looked shocked and faintly disgusted, while Bilbo listened with rapt delight.

In the kitchen, Thrain and Dís were preparing dessert. There was a certain peace to the arrangement that Thorin was loathe to shatter, but he really didn’t want to have to be privy to the conversation in the dining room. Wordlessly, he kicked the dog’s bowl into place and filled it, stepping out of the way as Roac came bolting into the room, now googly eye free.

Thorin snorted, skirting around his father and sister to gather up new wine glasses for dessert, hurrying when he heard voices begin to raise in the living room.

Sure enough, Bilbo and Frerin were both standing. Bilbo was doing his best to look intimidating, but for Frerin, intimidating was the default, so Bilbo’s attempts fell short.

“You know what this is?” Bilbo asked, digging into his pocket until he pulled out a quarter sized chunk of concrete. One face was entirely blue, the sides were jagged and pitted.

“A rock,” said Frerin dully, clearly concerned about where this was going. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bilbo make some strange, jerking motion, then Frerin was clutching at his forehead. “Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell?”

“It’s a piece of the Berlin Wall, you ignorant fuck!” cried Bilbo, looking absolutely gleeful.

“Okay, yeah, I get that. Why my fucking head?”

“Pain is weakness leaving the body!” Bilbo all but shouted. “First thing they teach you in booty camp.”

“Boot camp,” Thorin corrected.

“Boot camp,” Bilbo repeated casually.

“You don’t know the first thing about boot camp, look at you!” Frerin said, gesturing to Bilbo’s. “Christ, bro, do you even lift? I could throw you on the fucking lawn.”

“Fucking try it, scrub,” Bilbo challenged.

“Maybe I will. Finally get you to shut up about shit you don’t know anything about.”

“Oh my god, Frerin, don’t-”

Sensing an imminent explosion, Thorin tried to break the two up with a forced attempt at steering the conversation elsewhere. All he got for his troubles was an awkward hand pawing at his chest and a, “hold on, Thorin, I’ve got to silence the haters.”

Moments later, Frerin was hauling Bilbo out of the house with an arm looped around his neck. Bilbo struggled ineffectively, but Frerin was quick and he was strong. Thorin could only watch Frerin tug him down the hallway, and then the two were spilling out onto the front lawn for all the world to see. Thorin was only seconds behind them, Dís following not long after, not all too concerned about this development.

“Unhand me you goddamn fascist!” Bilbo all but screamed, garnering the attention of every single one of their neighbors. Across the street, Thranduil and his father slipped out onto their porch to watch the scene. Thranduil held his baby cradled in one arm and his phone in the other, and the infant was the only reason Thorin wasn’t shouting abuses at the both of them.

After a brief tussle, Bilbo managed to break out of the headlock, and staggered back a few steps. “Well?” he goaded, shit eating grin firmly in place. “You were just telling me how-”

Frerin punched Bilbo square in the jaw, and he fell to the grass like a poorly constructed Jenga tower. It was only then that Thorin could screw up the coordination to step in, pushing Frerin back with an arm barred across his chest and a warning glare. Frerin muttered something bitterly, but Thorin couldn’t make it out and Bilbo groaned, thoroughly distracting him.

Thorin found it hard to control himself as Bilbo sat up, his hair disheveled and his lip bleeding but no worse for the wear. In fact, Bilbo looked so goddamn attractive in that moment that Thorin found it hard to do much of anything. He wiped the blood away with the back of his hand, then took Thorin’s outstretched hand with a grin. Frerin huffed and muttered again, then turned and stomped back towards the house. “You’re fucking pathetic, now get your ass up,” Dís said sagely as Thorin hauled Bilbo to his feet.

“Much appreciated,” said Bilbo to the both of them as he fixed his glasses. Dis just waved a hand at him, grinning, and turned on her heel to try and herd Frerin back into the house more quickly.

Once the front door closed, Thorin turned on Bilbo. “Jesus fucking Christ. I thought I said to go easy on them! Are you alright? Also why the _fuck_ did you try and fight him, I told you it was a bad idea and—stop laughing! You just got his in the fucking face. What the everloving _hell_ are you doing? I thought I told you to go easy on them!”

“First of all I’m fine, I’ve gotten worse before. And second, you did, but your sister e-mailed me,” Bilbo explained. “She said something along the lines of ‘my brother is a wimp, raise hell you beautiful disaster you.’ So I obliged.”

“Alright,” Thorin said, pinching the bridge of his nose against his gathering headache. “Alright. Just. You’ve done enough. Take it easy, now.”

“You sure? Because I can-”

“ _Please_ just take it easy,” Thorin repeated, exasperated and worn out. Bilbo nodded emphatically, and despite his better judgement he trusted him. Now all that was left was some much needed damage control and then everything would be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I more or less gave up on putting accents on the names. Sorry about that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The evening comes to a dramatic head, and then Bilbo and Thorin have sex in his van.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with minimal editing! I wasn't pleased with this chapter, especially as far as endings go, but I've decided to just shove it off into the world and let that be it. It was a wild, shitposting ride, folks, and now it's come to an end.

Bilbo behaved himself. Not so much that it aroused suspicion, but he started no more fights. He tread carefully, drawing Frerin into a discussion—not an argument—about the Kennedy assassination as they all sat down to watch football. Or, as Bilbo very boisterously called it, “The Big Game.”

This meant that Frerin’s attention was then divided between Bilbo and The Big Game. Thorin’s was too, as Bilbo soon moved on from political conspiracy theories to divulging all of the fascinating details of his theory about Adam Sandler’s racketeering business, which he took as gospel truth.

“Adam Sandler? Really?” Dis asked, interested from the get-go. “He doesn’t seem smart enough to scam anyone.”

“That’s what he _wants_ you to think. All of his bad jokes are a disguise. A ruse. A distraction from the real crime.”

Frerin rolled his eyes even as he encouraged Bilbo. “C’mon, I want to hear this.”

Bilbo grinned. He seemed to live for moments like these. “Imagine, for a terrible moment, that you’re Adam Sandler. You have all of Hollywood gagging for your disgusting comedy dick, clamoring to latch on to the teats of the cash cow that is your awful, awful movies. You go to, I don’t know, Sony, those poor motherfuckers. And you say to Sony, ‘hey, I can make you a banging movie, just give me eighty million dollars for the privilege of attaching your name to another soul-sucking Sandler movie. Did I mention I’m Adam Sandler? Good. Now purse your lips, apply them directly to my asshole.’ And, because you’re Adam Goddamn Sandler, they give in to your demands, no matter how degrading it must be. Bam, you have eighty million dollars. Now you get your asshole actor friends signed onto this movie and you produce some two and a half hour long shitshow film reproduction of, I don’t know, Moose Murders. And because you’re Adam Goddamn Sandler, of course it makes at least double it’s budget.”

“So he makes off with the rest of the money from the budget plus the revenue from the film,” Dis said. “Fucking incredible.”

“Exactly!” Bilbo cried, gesticulating wildly. He smacked her in the arm by accident, and she punched him back. “But there’s more!”

“ _No_ ,” Thorin gasped, playing along.

“Yes! The people must know, sugar tits. I’m sorry.” He patted Thorin’s chest. “The final key, the real nail in this couch--”

”Coffin.”

“Coffin, Thorin, thank you-- is product fucking placement.”

“Makes sense,” Frerin said, nodding. He rattled off a few examples, clearly an enthusiastic Adam Sandler fan. By then the game was starting, and his attention was drifting. “Look at this fucking lineup, what are they doing?”

That broke the spell for the rest of the family as well, and soon the conversation was dominated by good-natured arguments over the game. Thorin had his doubts about whether Bilbo actually knew what was going on, but he was cheering along with the rest of them, as raucous as the most diehard fan, though not in competition with Frerin. “These guys in the green, they’re pretty good,” Bilbo said, his hand warm on Thorin’s shoulder, his tone low and conspiratory.“Do you think that they’ll win the Stanley Cup?” The Eagles were losing.

Dis laughed and smacked Bilbo’s shoulder. Thorin hiked Bilbo’s legs farther up onto his lap, where they had been slipping down his thighs. “Probably not,” Dis said. “I’ll bet you. Ireland wins, but Krum catches the snitch.”

Bilbo gave her a reprimanding look. “You can’t fool me. Ireland isn’t playing this game.”

She laughed again and threw a pretzel at him. “You caught me. Nothing gets past you, Baggins.”

At halftime, Bilbo untangled himself from Thorin, excusing himself to go to the bathroom. Thorin found him in the kitchen, reaching for a cup in the upper cabinets. The awful sweater rode up, giving Thorin a very nice idea of how those jeans fit Bilbo. Precariously perched as he was, Thorin was afraid that Bilbo would fall, or break something. But before Thorin (very chivalrously) managed to offer to help Bilbo get a glass, Bilbo caught the rim of one and yanked it off of the shelf, catching it as it fell.

“I’d say I’m behaving very well,” he said conversationally. “But I do enjoy feedback.”

“Ten out of ten,” Thorin replied, coming to lean against the counter as Bilbo filled his cup from the tap. “Do you actually know jack shit about football or was that an act, too?”

“I know very little, but a bit more than I’m letting on,” Bilbo said. “I don’t look like much of a sports guy, though, do I?”

“You like the kind of guy I’d shove into a locker in high school,” Thorin said, only half joking. Who’s proud of who they were in high school, though?

“And now?”

“Now I can think of a few more things I would rather do,” Thorin murmured, imagining that he was one smooth operator. He thought it was a very bold statement, but regretted it when Bilbo started laughing. “What?” he asked, ears heating.

“No, no, I’m sorry, this is terrible. I shouldn’t laugh!” Bilbo said. “I’d love nothing more than that, that just took me by surprise! And maybe it wasn’t so eloquent, but you’re not a very socially graceful person. I knew that.”

“You’d like that?” Thorin asked, hoping that they were on the same page and that Bilbo would accept any kind of sexual overture.

“Of course! Thorin, you’re very attractive. I don’t know if you knew that--but I’m sure you do-- ” Bilbo said.

“Can I kiss you?” Thorin blurted, with none of the smoothness he’d wanted. Bilbo was right, he was terrible at this. “Don’t laugh.”

Bilbo laughed anyway, but nodded.

“I said _don’t_ laugh, you ass,” Thorin snapped, but that didn’t stop Bilbo at all. As he snickered, he hopped up on the counter and hooked a leg around Thorin’s waist to draw him in.

“That was very endearing, if not a little embarrassing. Yes, you may kiss me,” Bilbo said. Rather than wait, though, he tossed his arms over Thorin’s shoulder and leaned up so that Thorin need only close the gap between them and they were kissing. Bilbo’s body pressed up against him, solid, as Thorin stepped between his legs. 

Later, he would be disappointed that he noticed nothing but the sheer joy of _kissing him_ , as it was far too short. He heard, like the calm before the storm, a sharp inhale, not from Bilbo and not from him, loud enough to startle them both. “Shit,” Thorin hissed as he stepped away from Bilbo, who slid off of the counter.

“Hello, Mr. Durin,” Bilbo said with a forced smile, only adding to the thickening tension. Thorin felt his heart in his throat and his stomach drop. _Fucking busted._

“ _What_ do you think you’re _doing_ , Thorin?” Thrain asked, voice wavering with poorly concealed anger. Thorin turned around, focusing on a point just to the right of his father’s head.

“Well, we were—“ Bilbo began, bless his wicked little heart. Thorin actually trusted him to talk his way out of this.

“Did I _ask_ you?” Thrain snapped. He was listing as he strode into the room, a sure sign that he had had too much to drink. “I’m speaking with my son.”

“Dad, I don’t know what—“

“ _Thorin_ ,” his father interrupted. “I’ve tried to be patient with you, waiting for this… this phase of yours to run its course. But this is going too far.”

“It’s _not_ a phase,” Thorin muttered.

“Your sister said that, too, when she was in high school and there was that… girl. And now look at her. You’ll be the same, I’m sure of it, and I’m not going to have you fooling around with this boy in my house, Thorin.” If Bilbo was offended by being called _boy_ , he made no sign of it.

“Dad, we were just—“

“ _Don’t_ interrupt me Thorin. I was talking,” Thrain said, now pacing. “This has gone on long enough. You’re an adult, you can’t keep playing games like this, and—“

“Fuck this,” Thorin said, not ready to sit by and be lectured at, and he certainly wasn’t going to make Bilbo listen to it. He was full to the brim with a wild, nervous energy, and he wanted to be reckless. “You’re still parked outside, right Bilbo? We’re leaving.”

“You are not walking away from me, Thorin.”

“Yes, I am. I don’t need to listen to this.” They were nearly at the door, Bilbo a few steps behind him, and he wasn’t going to stop now.

“If you walk out that door, I will not let you back into this house,” Thrain said.

Thorin stepped out the door and slammed it behind him, and that was that.

He didn’t know how he felt. He knew he should have been devastated, or terrified, or some other slurry of negative emotions. All there was numbness, as though the true reality hadn’t caught up to him yet.

Well, numbness and an interest in picking up where they had left off. He had priorities, after all..

Bilbo gaped wordlessly as Thorin strode to the car, his shorter legs working doubletime to keep up with Thorin’s larger, more purposeful strides. He’d gotten kicked out for kissing Bilbo, so goddamnit he was going to follow through with the damn thing.

When they arrived at the van (a truly awful thing) Bilbo began to fret over both Thorin and the location of his keys at the same time. Bilbo cursed, and then Thorin did, too, and then they were both cursing as he lifted Bilbo bodily to press him against the van. Thorin kissed Bilbo soundly and reveled in the freedom of it. Here he was, kissing a man, touching his butt.

Thorin thought it was a nice butt, too, though he didn’t claim to be an expert. He was no connoisseur of rears; to call him an ass man would be an outright lie. However, with his limited range of experience, he felt confident in his assumption that this was, indeed, a nice butt. Thorin found himself glad he had the opportunity to touch it.

He would have continued, too, had Bilbo not made a surprised noise shoved him back. Unable to take a hint, Thorin tried to dart forward, only to be met with a sharp slap. His cheek stung, but he found that it was not so unpleasant as he would have thought.

It served Bilbo’s purpose well enough, as Thorin let him down and frowned apologetically. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no, not at all. Though I shouldn’t have had to slap you, you brute. Goodness!” Bilbo unlocked the van and yanked the back doors open. “No, it’s only that your neighbor is watching.”

When Thorin looked up at the Oropherion family home, he saw only the rustle of a settling curtain. “ _Thranduil_ ,” he muttered under his breath. “That rat bastard.”

Meanwhile, Bilbo succeeded in opening the door. “Well, no matter who he is, I doubt you want to carry on out in the open like that.” He scrambled inside. Thorin followed after.

Inside the lighting was low, a single overhead car light illuminating the expanse of the back. The shag carpet was hot pink, and smelled faintly of stale marijuana. A twin mattress sat along the front, pushed up against the seats. Decals of peace signs and liberal bumper stickers plastered the walls and ceiling. Bilbo’s belongings were neatly packed into a single, understated suit case and a clear plastic tub. Other than the interior decorating, which made the whole thing feel like a step into the eighties, the van was very neat and orderly.

“Is this really yours?” Thorin asked. Bilbo was sitting on the mattress and tugging off his shoes. He shook his head.

“I borrowed it from a cousin,” he said. “Very kind of him, really, though all the detailing in the world cannot get rid of the smell. Now do we really want to discuss my car? You were just kicked out of your home.”

Thorin shook his head. After toeing off his shoes and leaving them neatly piled by the back, he crawled forward on hands and knees (not keen on standing and risking his head) to the mattress. It sunk under his weight, and Bilbo tipped forward into his chest with a startled yelp. Immediately, Thorin’s hands began traveling down his back, skirting up under his shirt. Bilbo made a pleased noise in the back of his throat that sent a pang of fire through him.

“Scoundrel!” Bilbo scolded, voice breathy with arousal. “Did no one teach you to keep your hands to yourself?”

“The lesson didn’t stick, I’m afraid. I’ve never been one to resist temptation, though,” Thorin admitted, grinning as he tugged off his sock. “Now, I believe we were in the middle of something?” Bilbo nodded, hurriedly skinning out of his clothes like a snake shedding its skin. Thorin watched, transfixed.

By the time Bilbo was down to just his underwear— safety yellow and patterned with little blue seagulls—he was frowning thoughtfully. “What’s up?” Thorin asked.

“I’m thinking this isn’t such a good idea,” Bilbo said. “Not for me, I’m all for… whatever you want. But I want you to really think about what you _do_ want. How many glasses of wine did you have?”

“Two,” Thorin said. “Bilbo, I _do_ want this. And not just to… spite my dad or whatever you think is going on. Really.”

Bilbo looked him square in the eyes for an uncomfortably long period of time, then shrugged. If he was searching for something, he never found it. “Alright, if you’re sure.”

“I am,” Thorin said, pulling off his shirt before he remembered his own inexperience. “But I should warn you that I’m not... uh. Not really good at this,” Thorin said, ears heating as he blushed with embarrassment. “But I don’t want to be the… god. The butt guy.”

“Not to worry,” Bilbo replied through barely contained laughter, “just follow my lead. Neither of us are going to be the… the butt guy. Take these off.”

Off came his pants, and Thorin could hardly say no to that, not when Bilbo was dragging him down by the shoulders. He still didn’t know how _neither_ of them could be the butt guy, but he was willing to trust Bilbo in this. Their lips met with a ferocious and clumsy clash of teeth, cajoled into something a bit more controlled by Bilbo’s efforts. Thorin braced himself with one arm, but offered the other up when Bilbo reached for his hand. “Better than before, at least. Really, you’d think you’ve never kissed _anyone_.”

Thorin bristled. “I have,” he said defensively. “I’ve kissed plenty of people.”

“I believe you. Now come here,” said Bilbo. His hands raised goosebumps on Thorin’s hips, dragging them down to nest up against his own. Through their underwear, he could feel the weight and heat of Bilbo’s [dick](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/39/Richard_M._Nixon,_ca._1935_-_1982_-_NARA_-_530679.jpg) on his thigh. Then Bilbo shifted beneath him, and his hands tightened on Thorin’s ass (when did they get there?) and their [cocks](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/70/EnglishCockerSpaniel_simon.jpg) nestled against each other, They both moaned, breathy for Bilbo, low and startled for Thorin.

“Now you need to _move_ ,” Bilbo said. He rolled his hips a few times, waiting for Thorin to catch on.

No one could say he didn’t try. After a few halfhearted thrusts, Bilbo grunted and groaned in frustration. “God, you really do suck at this. You fuck like a middle aged computer programmer with early onset arthritis, Thorin,” he said. “Lay down, we’re doing this differently.”

The statement brooked no complaint, so Thorin did as he was told. Carefully, as it was dark and the door light had gone off, he maneuvered off of Bilbo and onto his back.

And then Bilbo showed him how it was really done.

* * *

Thorin lay on the bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stickers and decals affixed to the ceiling like an odd, left-wing constellation. A draft was coming in from somewhere, or Bilbo was moving, but either way the stirring of his hair on Thorin’s chest was maddeningly ticklish. Still, he was not about to complain. The way Bilbo played with his hair carding his hands through it was mesmerizingly pleasant. They breathed in tandem: slow, even breaths. Perhaps that draft was from Thorin’s own breath, he realized. 

“I really am sorry for what happened,” Bilbo said softly. “With your father and all.”

A small, mean part of Thorin did blame Bilbo for what happened, but hindsight was something of a bitch and Thorin was realizing that all along he might have hoped for this. If things came to a dramatic climax, then hadn’t he and his father already reached rock bottom? They could only go up from here, right?

“Don’t be,” Thorin said, deciding to keep his misgivings to himself for now. “I’m the one who invited you, after all.”

“If you say so,” Bilbo mumbled into Thorin’s shoulder. “Then neither of us are blameless.” Thorin wanted to disagree, but he was tired of fighting. For a time they sat in silence, and when Thorin tried to speak again, he found that Bilbo had fallen asleep.

So Thorin fell asleep to the sound of Bilbo’s breathing, and woke up to a harsh banging on the van’s back door. “It’s five AM,” muttered Bilbo, crawling his way out from beneath Thorin’s arm. At some point in the night, Thorin must have rolled over onto his stomach.

The knocking—no, banging—continued. Bilbo swore and threw his shoe at the door, but it collided with an ineffectual thud and only seemed to further incense their early morning caller. Finally Bilbo jerked his underwear on and crawled to the door, squinting without his glasses. Blue, early-morning light flooded in, harsh on their unaccustomed eyes.

Outside stood Thranduil, in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his infant son cradled across his chest in a puce-colored papoose. “Go away, jackass. It’s five in the morning,” Thorin said. Thranduil’s eyes widened at the sight of him, with his mussed hair and bare chest—a quick glance down confirmed that he had a smattering of hickies from his chest to his neck as well. Thorin also looked very naked. Though he went to sleep in his boxers, the blanket was draped across his lap to hide them well.

“I will not leave until my complaints are heard,” Thranduil sniffed.

“And what are those?” Bilbo asked, sitting back on his heels. If possible, his hair was messier than Thorin’s.

Bilbo was met with an accusatory finger. “You, with this… van. Move it. I don’t care where. Just somewhere where I don’t have to _look_ at the ugly thing. Or else I’ll call the police and have you towed.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Thorin grumbled.

Bilbo only turned to look at Thorin. They managed a brief moment of silent communication, in which Bilbo questioned whether this was the kind of jackass he was allowed to mess with and Thorin confirmed that this was _exactly_ the kind of jackass to mess with. “You want to go to IHOP?” he asked Thorin.

“I’ve never wanted anything more,” Thorin replied. With that, Bilbo vaulted out of the back, shoeless and barely clothed and walked to the driver’s seat of the van. Thranduil leapt back like he was afraid Bilbo would attack him, Thorin following shortly after. He sat in the passenger seat in his jizz-crusted boxers and waved at Thranduil in the rearview mirror as they pulled away from the curb.

The IHOP was in the next town over, twenty minutes from where Thorin lived. At six AM the morning after Thanksgiving, it was deserted but for tired looking waitresses. They pulled on yesterday’s clothes before going inside (though Thorin had exchanged his boxers for a pair that Bilbo had laying around. They were made for a larger man than Bilbo and a smaller man than Thorin. They had dubious origins.)

The waitress didn’t look twice at them. They drank orange juice and coffee and dined on the establishment’s titular specialty, and all the while Thorin pondered what his next move was. He wondered if his father would let him back in. If he didn’t, perhaps he could convince Bilbo to drive him to his ex-family friends’ home. Balin and Dwalin the conscientious objectors would gladly take him in.

As the waitress was clearing up their table and Bilbo sorted out the bill (Thorin had no wallet, but Bilbo insisted it was the least he could do, really) Thorin came to his decision.

“Do you think you could drive me home?” he asked, chewing on his lip.

Bilbo gave him a look, as though to ask whether he was sure, and Thorin nodded. “As you wish,” Bilbo said, and when they were in the van again, he followed through. Rather than, say, kidnapping Thorin. Perhaps having sex with the strange man in his van was not Thorin’s best choice.

They rolled down familiar streets while Bilbo chattered, and Thorin felt the melancholy of a goodbye coming on. Bilbo seemed largely unaffected, but perhaps he just wasn’t so sentimental. Every so often Thorin interrupted Bilbo or himself, giving directions to turn right or bear left. Bilbo took the turns dutifully, until they were pulling in front of Thorin’s home again.

If the curtains in Thranduil’s home fluttered, Thorin was too caught up in figuring out how to say goodbye to notice. And in the end, it was Bilbo who spoke up.

“Well, this is your stop,” he said, smiling. “I do wish you the best of luck, and thank you for the free meal.”

Thorin nodded. “Right. And thanks for… the stuff that you did,” he said, eloquent as ever. Then he gave a half-hearted wave and clambered out of the van and onto the sidewalk,. Bilbo waved back as he pulled away down the street.

As the van turned the corner, Thorin realized with icy panic that he forgot his dirty underwear in the van and had failed to get any contact information from Bilbo. Perhaps that was better. Maybe they were just tangent lines.

Gathering his courage, he walked to the front door and knocked.

His father let him back in, but not without some wheedling and cajoling. And a fair bit of begging. Thorin knew it wouldn’t be the end of this discussion, but he was pleased to be allowed back into his home, if not welcomed. Frerin looked at him as though Thorin was a ghost, and Dis shouted a few lewd questions up the stairs after him. Her laughter carried, as did Frerin’s protests when she threw a pillow at him.

The first thing Thorin did was take a shower, washing away the pervading stench of sex and sweat and sleep. When he got out, the damnable dog was there again, licking his still-wet calves as if nothing had changed before Thorin shooed him out of the bathroom.

As he toweled off his hair, he caught a flash of black against the sight of his own reflection in the partially fogged over mirror. Frowning, he turned, craning to look over his shoulder. And sure enough, written right across his ass in fine, slanted Sharpie marker was the word: **“CHRISTMAS?”** and the neat line of Bilbo’s phone number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it kids. We climbed the whole goddamn mountain. You can tell where I gave up.

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT THANKSGIVING 2015: it's the 50th anniversary of Alice's Restaurant. Listen to the song. It's excellent and was an absolute inspiration for this fic.


End file.
